To Win Her Favor

by Tamera Alexander

  The stallion—magnificent, even at a glance—was tethered to the front of the wagon. So each time the thoroughbred reared, his fetlocks scraped the wood. From where he stood, Cullen spotted blood.

  “Easy, boy,” he whispered, inching closer, sizing up his options.

  The stallion bucked, doing a better than fair job of showing what damage a single kick from his massive hindquarters could render. Cullen recalled as a boy seeing a man get his head kicked in. He’d died instantly. Here one second, in eternity the next. Cullen would never forget it.

  He moved to the window on the far side where it was just him and the stallion. “You’re strong and courageous, boy.” He spoke softly. “I can see that.” The horse watched him from above, the whites of his eyes pronounced in the dim light of the trailer.

  “What’s his name?” Cullen called out.

  “What does it matter?” The man who’d held the whip rounded the corner, revenge in his eyes. “They can’t understand things any more than I’m guessin’ your kind can—”

  His patience gone, Cullen landed a blow to the man’s rib cage. Not even that hard, but the fellow dropped like a gunnysack at harvest.

  Cullen stood over him. “What’s your name, you sorry piece of—” Seeing Mr. Linden from the corner of his eye, Cullen dispensed with the remaining pleasantries. Working the Brooklyn docks had stolen so much of the good Moira had planted within him.

  “Your name,” Cullen said again.

  “Grady,” the man ground out, still holding his belly. “Grady Matthews.”

  “And whose stallion would this be?” Cullen asked.

  “The horse belongs to General William Giles Harding,” Mr. Linden supplied, joining them. “Of Belle Meade Plantation.” He motioned to the land on the other side of the road. “And this man here knows full well the general doesn’t hold to whipping horses. Nor does the general’s head hostler.”

  Neither the name of the man nor the estate sounded familiar to Cullen, but if this General William Giles Harding didn’t hold to whips, the man was already a step up from the hoopleheads.

  Grady Matthews’s partner approached. “The horse’s name is Bonnie Scotland, sir. He arrived this mornin’ by train.”

  Cullen couldn’t help but stare. Bonnie Scotland. It couldn’t be. He peered back up into the window only to find the thoroughbred staring back.

  He’d seen a horse by the name of Bonnie Scotland chase the wind—and win—another lifetime ago in England. But how long had that been now? Thirteen years? Fourteen? He’d been not a boy anymore, yet not quite a man, when his family had been forced to move from Ireland to England, and one of the first places his da had sought out had been the racetracks.

  “What do you know about this horse?” Cullen asked, still watching the stallion.

  “Only that they say he was somethin’ back in the day,” the same man answered. “Won a few races in England, I think.”

  Cullen smiled to himself, feeling as though he were looking at a piece of his past resurrected in the flesh, living and breathing right before him. “Bonnie Scotland made four starts at the age of three, after bein’ injured the year before.” He could still see it in his mind’s eye. “He won the Liverpool Saint Leger, placin’ fourth in the Great Yorkshire Stakes, then managed a second place dead heat at Doncaster. So, aye,” Cullen laughed. “You might say he’s won a few.”

  Maybe he was imagining it, but Cullen would’ve sworn he glimpsed acknowledgment in the stallion’s eyes.

  And to think he’d been reminded of this very thoroughbred earlier that morning when he’d seen the horse and rider across the river. That horse had moved with such speed and gracefulness, just like Bonnie Scotland had run back in the day.

  “You two—” He motioned to Matthews and the other man. “Unhitch the mares and lead them a stone’s throw down the road.” He looked back at Bonnie Scotland. “No man likes to be afraid. Especially not in front of a woman.”

  Once they’d done as he bade—Grady Matthews begrudgingly, judging by the fellow’s scowl—Cullen moved to stand at the end of the ramp.

  Mr. Linden came alongside. “You’re not going in there.”

  “Someone has to. Eventually. Besides . . .” He looked over at the man whom he already felt he knew better than everyone he’d known back in Brooklyn. “Haven’t you ever come upon moments in life when you simply knew you were supposed to do something?”

  Gilbert Linden didn’t respond immediately. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ve experienced such times.”

  Cullen shrugged in response then gestured for the older man to step aside. “But just in case he kills me . . . you can have my horse.”

  With nary a blink, Mr. Linden nodded. “Much obliged. I’ll take good care of him too. What’s his name?”

  Sensing the man’s seriousness behind the humor, Cullen glanced back at the Percheron—and knew. “Levi. It’s short for—”

  “Leviathan.” Linden nodded, then whistled at the collie as it crept closer to the trailer. Bucket reluctantly returned. “It’s from the Bible. Well chosen, Mr. McGrath.”

  Leviathan was from the Bible? Cullen took a deep breath, readying himself for what was ahead, even as he was heartened to find there was a bit of Moira left in him after all.

  With the mares unhitched, he didn’t have to worry about the wagon taking off with him inside. He had enough to worry about with the stallion alone. He moved to the side so Bonnie Scotland could see him unhindered. The stallion turned his head, watching as closely as Cullen was watching him.

  Arms relaxed at his sides, yet with heart pounding, Cullen was careful not to match the horse’s gaze as a predator would. Instead he looked down and away as he inched forward, watching the horse’s hindquarters for any hint that he would buck.

  “ ’Tis the last rose of summer . . .” He softly sang the ballad he’d known since childhood, as much to calm his own nerves as the thoroughbred’s. “Left bloomin’ alone . . . All her lovely companions . . . are faded and gone.”

  The horse reared and the trailer shook.

  Cullen managed to keep his balance, but a rush shot through him as if he’d downed a pint of stout ale. Which didn’t sound half bad at the moment. He waited before moving forward again, almost inside the trailer now.

  “No flower of her kindred . . . No rosebud is nigh.” Funny how a song his own ma had sung—and that he’d sung to his precious Katie—would return at such a moment. “To reflect back her blushes . . . or give sigh for sigh.”

  The thoroughbred struggled, straining against the tether, then bucked as Cullen had feared. But he was past those powerful hooves and inside now. Still, the animal could crush him if he had a mind to.

  He couldn’t believe he was standing this close to a horse he’d seen race all those years ago. “Liverpool Saint Leger,” he whispered. “You ran that day like the champion you are.”

  Ever so slowly, so the stallion could see him, Cullen reached out and laid a hand on the thoroughbred’s withers.

  At once the stallion reared, then sidestepped, smashing Cullen into the wall. The back of his head connected with a thud, and pinpoints of light obscured his sight. He heard a voice in the distance, but it took a few seconds for the fog to clear.

  “Mr. McGrath, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  With jarring pain spreading from ear to ear, Cullen finally realized who it was. “I’m fine, Mr. Linden,” he said evenly. “Stay back.”

  Remaining perfectly still and keeping his hands to himself, Cullen took inventory. No injuries that he could tell. Just pain. But it would pass. For the longest time he stood unmoving, the tense silence a third companion in the crowded space.

  Meanwhile, Bonnie Scotland snorted and pawed at the trailer floor.

  “You and me both, boy,” Cullen whispered. “I know what it’s like to feel trapped.” He sighed. It must have been around ’57 or so, but he remembered reading in the newspaper about the sale of this thoroughbred to someone in America. “So y
ou’ve been standin’ stud all these years, I take it. Not a bad job all in all, I’m guessin’. Though I’m sure it gets tirin’ from time to time.”

  The stallion looked back at him, and Cullen couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’re safe now,” he said softly, over and over, inching forward.

  Hoping the stallion wasn’t a biter, he untied the first tether, keenly aware of how massive this horse was. And how handsome. Not as enormous as Levi, but a full sixteen hands high to be sure. And with the longest shoulder, deepest heart-place, best forehand, shortest saddle-place, and the most powerful quarters of any thoroughbred he’d seen.

  With the second tether free, Cullen held the lead rein. “I saw you beat Ellington that last day. You flew around that track. If not for the dirt you kicked up, I would’ve sworn your hooves never touched the earth.”

  The thoroughbred shook his head from side to side.

  “Aye. You’re free. And your new home awaits.” What a comforting thought that was. Home. But also a lonely one when such a place didn’t exist.

  Cullen applied the slightest pressure with the lead rein, and the stallion backed out of the trailer as though they’d done that together a thousand times.

  Half an hour later, with the mares again hitched to the wagon and a much calmer Bonnie Scotland tethered to trail behind, Cullen stood with Gilbert Linden and watched the wagon and prized stud pull away.

  Grady Matthews glanced back, a cigar wedged between his teeth and challenge in his eyes. But Cullen had met his sort before. The type of man who thought far more of himself than he ought. The type of man other men enjoyed seeing put in his place. Especially when the putting was so rewarding.

  The wagon disappeared around the bend.

  “So . . .” Mr. Linden sighed. “I take it this means I don’t get your horse.”

  Cullen laughed. “I think I’ll be keepin’ him for now, sir.”

  “He was a little nicked and scraped”—Linden’s focus was still on the road—“but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been. And would have been, if you hadn’t intervened.”

  “I was happy to do it. And would do it again . . . in another hundred years.” Cullen strode to where Levi was grazing. “Mind if I water him at the creek?”

  Linden gestured. “Not at all.”

  They walked the short distance, Bucket reaching the creek first, and as the collie and Percheron drank, Cullen knelt and splashed water on his own face and neck. He cupped his hands and drank to his fill, the water cool as it went down. “Truly a fine piece of land you have here, sir.”

  “Yes, it is. And I believe you had a question you wanted to ask me about it, Mr. McGrath.”

  Cullen rose to find the gentleman watching him. He hadn’t intended for his statement to be interpreted as a springboard, but—

  “Aye, sir. I do. You were right about me seein’ your property listed in the newspaper as goin’ to auction soon.” He glanced away. “But you’re mistaken about my reason for comin’ to see you about it before that. The reason I’m here today is . . .” He hesitated.

  “Go on,” Linden said softly.

  “Well, sir . . . In case you haven’t noticed, I’m Irish. So I’m not allowed to bid, much less apply for any job in town. But I don’t want a job in town. I want land. I want a farm. My da was a farmer until the famine wiped us out, along with everyone else. He moved the family to England, and there we made the best of it. But . . .” Cullen shook his head. “In the end, it wasn’t where we were supposed to be.”

  “We,” Linden repeated, question in his tone.

  “Moira and me. And our Katie.” Cullen bowed his head. “Typhoid. On the voyage over. Moira passed one mornin’ before sunrise, and Katie followed her that eve.”

  For the longest moment Linden regarded him, his expression inscrutable. “Walk with me.”

  As they made their way back across the field, Cullen listened as the man shared the history of the farm, what crops had been planted through the years and which had done best, along with how the farm had fallen into ruin after the war.

  The field widened and up ahead, situated in a meadow, sat a white two-story farmhouse, a barn, a stable, and various outbuildings. Cullen paused to view the idyllic scene—the collie bounding toward home, a dairy cow grazing near the house, chickens pecking about the roost, and laundry drying in the breeze.

  “Straight from a picture book,” he whispered.

  Linden laughed softly. “A touch of heaven, my friend.” Grimacing, he took a sharp breath, and his shoulders pitched forward.

  Cullen grabbed hold of his upper arm. “Sir—”

  Linden lifted a shaky hand. “It will pass,” he said, breathless. “I just . . . need a moment.”

  “Could I get somethin’ for you?”

  He shook his head, his face bathed in sweat. “Just . . . wait with me.”

  Moments passed, and with them whatever the trouble had been. Finally Linden breathed easier. He looked over at Cullen and smiled, though his grayish complexion wasn’t reassuring. “Shall we journey the rest of the way?”

  Cullen occasionally peered at him as they went, watching for signs of another episode. But as they drew closer to the house, the surroundings begged his attention, and the scene he’d considered so idyllic from a distance took on a slightly different cast.

  The roof on the far side of the barn sagged with the passage of time, as did that of the stable, which was empty from what Cullen could see. Numerous plank wood boards forming the stable walls had bested the nails once driven through them and now pulled away in rebellion. The house, too, needed repair. Shutters on the second floor hung at dissonant angles to the windows, the railing along the front porch bowed outward, and in more places than not the white paint—long since defeated by relentless summer suns—had retreated to reveal the bare wood.

  Still, even with all the maintenance it would require, Linden Downs was worth every penny Cullen had in his pocket. And more.

  “I can see what you’re thinking, Mr. McGrath.”

  Cullen realized the man had been watching him.

  “You’re thinking there’s plenty of work to be done. And it’s true. I can’t do what I used to. After losing my sons, and after the slaves went free . . . well, that was the beginning of the end.”

  “I’m not afraid of hard work, Mr. Linden. Anythin’ worth havin’ is worth workin’ hard for.”

  The squeak of ill-tempered hinges complained somewhere behind them, and Linden raised a hand in greeting.

  “Cletus,” he called out.

  Cullen trailed his gaze and saw an ancient-looking man, shoulders stooped, gait measured, exiting the barn. He wore an old slouch hat, and at first glance Cullen would have thought him feeble if not for the cinder blocks he carried. One in each massive grip.

  “Afternoon, Mister Linden,” Cletus answered in a voice as deep and dark as the color of his skin. “You have yourself a good visit, sir?”

  “Yes, I did.” Linden paused briefly on the bottom porch step, the collie already waiting for him by the front door. “The last remnants of winter have been cleared away from the graves. Spring flowers will be making their way soon enough.”

  Cletus nodded, glancing at Cullen beneath the rim of his hat, then just as quickly looking away. “Miss Laurel, she was always partial to keepin’ things in they place.”

  As Cletus passed, Cullen sensed a silent exchange between the men and felt certain Cletus was the one responsible for tending the graves. Just as he was certain Mr. Linden had been thanking him for it.

  Cullen tethered Levi to a post and followed Mr. Linden inside.

  He found the home neat and tidy with fine furnishings that, though showing their age, still had plenty of life in them. But no doubt Mr. Linden would take those with him when he left. It was a good-sized house, but how lonely it must be with the rest of his family gone on before.

  They entered a small library whose book-lined shelves bore testimony to a man who treasured their
company. Just as the handsome Sharps rifle hanging above the hearth—a pristine .52-caliber with extended barrel and breech loading mechanism—spoke to another of the man’s admirations.

  “Have a seat, Mr. McGrath.”

  Linden claimed the chair behind the desk while Bucket stretched out at his feet. Cullen took the chair opposite, trying not to let his hopes rise.

  “As I said before, sir, I’m interested in buyin’ your land. More than interested.” He reached inside his jacket pocket and withdrew a thick leather pouch. “I’m prepared to offer cash.”

  A knock sounded on the door behind him, and Cullen paused as a woman carrying a tray entered the room. He laid the pouch on the desk.

  “Mister Linden,” she announced. “Some tea for you and your guest.”

  Despite being older, the woman served the hot tea with quick, efficient movements, and Cullen wondered if she was any relation to the gentleman he’d seen outside, Cletus. They were married, perhaps?

  “Onnie, I—” Mr. Linden hesitated, then leaned close to whisper to her.

  Almost before he drew away, the woman produced a folded piece of paper and emptied its powdery contents into Mr. Linden’s cup, then stirred. Cullen watched as the briefest meeting of their eyes conveyed both thanks and acknowledgment.

  So different, these people.

  He was accustomed to saying what he thought and showing what he felt. But that seemed unwelcome here. Even looked down upon. No matter what anyone said, he preferred his own way of things. It was cleaner. Clearer. Even if it did lead to arguments on occasion. He and Moira had had their share of going at it. But oh, the making up part. That had been sweeter than anything he’d imagined.

  He missed her closeness. Her touch. Knowing her womanly ways as he had. And her, in turn, knowing him.

  A good while after she’d passed, he’d found himself looking upon other women and responding to their overlong glances, to the way the bolder ones would lean close and offer him a generous view of what was cinched beneath tightly fitted bodices.